Chapter 131: Florida's Power
The highway near Florida's border stretched endlessly beneath the blazing sun, like a forgotten gray ribbon cutting through the wilderness.
Daryl rode his motorcycle at a steady pace, his eyes scanning the abandoned buildings along the roadside.
Gas stations.
Convenience stores.
Motels.
Each one looked like a hollow corpse with its guts ripped out, silently waiting for time to finish the job.
His gaze flickered toward the fuel gauge.
The needle was already hovering near empty.
If he didn't find fuel soon, he'd be pushing the motorcycle before nightfall.
He turned into a deserted gas station.
The tires rolled over loose gravel, kicking up a cloud of dust.
The station's canopy still stood, but every light bulb had long been shattered. Broken glass littered the ground beneath it.
Four fuel pumps stood in a row.
Their paint had peeled away, and their dark displays resembled four blind eyes staring into nothingness.
Daryl parked beside the nearest pump.
He grabbed the nozzle, inserted it into the fuel tank, and squeezed the trigger several times.
Nothing.
Not a single drop.
Expressionless, he returned the nozzle and walked behind the fuel pumps.
Squatting beside the underground fuel access cover, he pried it open.
A faint smell of gasoline drifted upward.
Stale.
Weak.
Like tea that had long gone cold.
He pulled out a flashlight and shined it inside.
Then he tapped the fuel tank wall with a wrench.
Thunk.
The sound echoed hollowly.
Still unwilling to give up, he removed the cover completely and leaned inside.
The flashlight beam swept across the bottom of the tank.
Only a thin layer of gasoline remained.
So little that the fuel pumps couldn't even reach it.
Daryl cursed under his breath.
He straightened up and slammed the cover shut.
At that moment—
A Walker crawled out from behind the convenience store.
Half of its employee uniform still hung from its body.
The shirt remained neatly buttoned, but everything below the waist was gone.
Its intestines dragged behind it like a filthy rope as it clawed its way across the concrete.
Its fingernails scraped against the pavement with a piercing screech.
Daryl was still crouched beside the fuel well.
When he turned around, the rotting face was already inches away.
Instinctively, he leaned backward.
His hand slipped.
The next moment, he fell directly into the fuel access pit.
The Walker lunged.
Its upper body dropped into the opening, jaws snapping toward him.
Daryl crashed onto the metal fuel tank below.
Pain exploded across his back, nearly knocking the breath from his lungs.
Ignoring the pain, he gritted his teeth and drew his crossbow.
The bolt shot upward.
Thud.
It pierced the Walker's eye socket.
The corpse twitched once before hanging motionless over the opening.
Daryl shoved it aside, climbed out, retrieved the bolt, wiped it clean on the Walker's shirt, and returned it to his quiver.
Standing beside the road, he lit a cigarette.
After two drags, he tossed it to the ground and crushed it beneath his boot.
"No fuel."
Looks like I'll have to keep moving.
A dozen miles farther down the highway, Daryl spotted a Humvee.
The black vehicle bore a familiar red-and-white umbrella logo.
It emerged from a dirt road and merged onto the highway.
Two modified pickup trucks followed closely behind it.
Armed men stood in the truck beds with rifles slung over their shoulders.
Daryl pulled his motorcycle onto the shoulder and raised a hand.
At first, he assumed they were from Umbrella Corporation.
Perhaps a supply team.
Perhaps a scouting unit.
The Humvee slowed and stopped.
The pickup trucks stopped as well.
Then Daryl got a clear look at the people inside.
His eyes narrowed.
They weren't Umbrella personnel.
Not even close.
The men were sunburned and heavily tattooed.
Some wore gold chains.
Others wore floral bandanas.
A few didn't bother wearing shirts at all.
Most importantly—
The Umbrella Corporation logo on the Humvee had been deliberately scratched and defaced.
The paint had been scraped away, exposing bare metal beneath.
Daryl slowly lowered his hand.
The Humvee's door swung open.
Seven or eight armed men climbed out and surrounded him.
The leader was bald.
A jagged scar stretched from the corner of his eye to the edge of his mouth, twisting across his face like a giant centipede.
He walked over and jabbed Daryl in the chest with the barrel of his rifle.
"Where'd you get that motorcycle?"
Daryl stared at him without speaking.
The bald man shoved him harder.
"Answer me."
Daryl took a step back.
The rifle barrel pressed against his forehead.
"Tell me where you got it."
"Found it."
His voice was flat.
The bald man grinned.
The scar twisted grotesquely across his face.
"Found it, huh? Lucky you."
His gaze swept over Daryl's body armor and finally settled on the crossbow at his waist.
"Nice gear."
He smirked.
"Take it off."
Daryl didn't move.
The rifle remained pressed against his forehead.
"I said take it off."
Slowly, Daryl lowered his gaze.
His hands moved toward the straps of his body armor.
One buckle.
Then another.
The bald man's finger rested on the trigger.
Suddenly—
Daryl exploded into motion.
One hand grabbed the rifle barrel and forced it upward.
Bang!
The shot went into the sky.
At the same instant, his other hand drew a knife and pressed it against the man's throat.
The blade bit into flesh.
A thin line of blood appeared.
"Don't move."
His voice was quiet.
But everyone heard it.